Going anywhere Jewish in Berlin these days is like travelling to a foreign country. First you have to walk past the policeman at the door, then you're greeted by the airport metal detector. Even the kids who came to the Channukah market at the Jewish museum in December were forced to undergo rigorous security checks before they were allowed to get near to the sweets and toys.
This familiar sight greeted us as we arrived at the Jewish Community Centre. From the outside the place is bizarre; the ornate gateway of an old, ruined synagogue attached to an ugly 1960's building. The old and the new, married uncomfortably together like so many other places in this city.
I got through security after a slightly drawn-out check and made my way up to the restaurant where I was going to wait for a couple of hours while Olya took her Yiddish class. Two women, mother and daughter, were hunched over cake. A few chaps wearing skullcaps and beards were drinking Becks Gold and speaking Russian in low tones. I took a seat next to the whitewashed wall and ordered my drink, took out my book and got comfortable. It occurred to me then that The Fall by Albert Camus was maybe not the best book to read in such religious surroundings, but nobody seemed to notice or care.
No one really sat still in this place. They milled around, visited each other's tables, inspected the buffet, without ever allowing themselves the time to settle. The oldest man there, a splendidly-bearded gentleman aged around 65, would wander between the rooms at regular intervals. Each time he passed through a doorway he would kiss his hand and press his fingers lightly against the wall. Whenever he stood up I would watch him repeat the practice out of the corner of my eye. It seemed to be an extremely spiritual gesture, although I had no idea at all what could be so moving about a doorframe.
In between reading Camus' stories of gambling, prosititutes and atheism I began to feel extremely tired. The glare of the lights hitting the yellowed pages of the old Penguin paperback and the soft murmurings of the voices around me lulled me into a strange trance. Every minute or so I would notice that I was falling asleep and have to sit up, straighten my back and focus on the words again.
The only answer was caffeine, but it was not so straightforward. Whenever the waiter got within two tables' distance of me his gaze would automatically drift elsewhere and he would increase his speed. Often he would take a seat to chat with the mother and daughter eating cake in the corner, or converse with the beer drinkers. I could have called him over or approached him, but it seemed as though that would have been inappropriate behaviour. It was a cafe, but it wasn't a cafe. He was a waiter and he wasn't a waiter. I was there, but I wasn't there.
Having resigned myself to no more coffee, I waited it out until Olya arrived at quarter to ten. I left my little table and managed, with a great sense of achievement, not only to procure my bill from the waiter but also to pay it.
We descended the staircase, back towards the security checkpoint and out onto the cold street. I told her about the old guy's peculiar method of entering and leaving rooms and she didn't seem surprised. "I think you're supposed to thank God for everything, no matter how small," she said.
There's something great about this idea. Showing gratitude for forgettable things, even the simple act of passing from one room to another, seems to me like a wonderful habit. God or no God, a little humility would do us all a bit of good in the end.
We headed toward to Zoologischer Garten station and I looked back at the ugly concrete building one last time in the glow of the West Berlin lights. Of course, I forgot to say thank you.
This familiar sight greeted us as we arrived at the Jewish Community Centre. From the outside the place is bizarre; the ornate gateway of an old, ruined synagogue attached to an ugly 1960's building. The old and the new, married uncomfortably together like so many other places in this city.
I got through security after a slightly drawn-out check and made my way up to the restaurant where I was going to wait for a couple of hours while Olya took her Yiddish class. Two women, mother and daughter, were hunched over cake. A few chaps wearing skullcaps and beards were drinking Becks Gold and speaking Russian in low tones. I took a seat next to the whitewashed wall and ordered my drink, took out my book and got comfortable. It occurred to me then that The Fall by Albert Camus was maybe not the best book to read in such religious surroundings, but nobody seemed to notice or care.
No one really sat still in this place. They milled around, visited each other's tables, inspected the buffet, without ever allowing themselves the time to settle. The oldest man there, a splendidly-bearded gentleman aged around 65, would wander between the rooms at regular intervals. Each time he passed through a doorway he would kiss his hand and press his fingers lightly against the wall. Whenever he stood up I would watch him repeat the practice out of the corner of my eye. It seemed to be an extremely spiritual gesture, although I had no idea at all what could be so moving about a doorframe.
In between reading Camus' stories of gambling, prosititutes and atheism I began to feel extremely tired. The glare of the lights hitting the yellowed pages of the old Penguin paperback and the soft murmurings of the voices around me lulled me into a strange trance. Every minute or so I would notice that I was falling asleep and have to sit up, straighten my back and focus on the words again.
The only answer was caffeine, but it was not so straightforward. Whenever the waiter got within two tables' distance of me his gaze would automatically drift elsewhere and he would increase his speed. Often he would take a seat to chat with the mother and daughter eating cake in the corner, or converse with the beer drinkers. I could have called him over or approached him, but it seemed as though that would have been inappropriate behaviour. It was a cafe, but it wasn't a cafe. He was a waiter and he wasn't a waiter. I was there, but I wasn't there.
Having resigned myself to no more coffee, I waited it out until Olya arrived at quarter to ten. I left my little table and managed, with a great sense of achievement, not only to procure my bill from the waiter but also to pay it.
We descended the staircase, back towards the security checkpoint and out onto the cold street. I told her about the old guy's peculiar method of entering and leaving rooms and she didn't seem surprised. "I think you're supposed to thank God for everything, no matter how small," she said.
There's something great about this idea. Showing gratitude for forgettable things, even the simple act of passing from one room to another, seems to me like a wonderful habit. God or no God, a little humility would do us all a bit of good in the end.
We headed toward to Zoologischer Garten station and I looked back at the ugly concrete building one last time in the glow of the West Berlin lights. Of course, I forgot to say thank you.
